Metaphorical Storm : Half Goddess Half Hell

You ask me if I know what it feels like to have a rocket launcher jammed up your throat. I nod, I do. Don't we all? Everyone's messed up. The madhouses are aquariums and we study the fishes, we keep them entrapped like winged insects in jars. There's this thirst in the air and no amount of rain can quench it.
They say the world's ending but it ends every year, and then it's morning again, the birds beep as do the cars on the highway, we wake up again and breathe again and it hurts but it's a fading hurt. Time becomes our damnation, and our salvation. Maybe on brighter days we'll meet on tire swings and talk about how the stars are merely the fae folk in disguise.